I didn't think there was a tender spot on you.

Oh, sit down, man, and put your fists in your pockets; you haven't the pluck to strike me.
I wish you had"-- his eyes flashed ominously--"for I might be tempted to give you the thrashing you deserve and I'm longing to give you.

And yet--no, I shouldn't; for I wouldn't defile my hands by touching you." There was a pause, then, with a gesture, as if he had mastered himself, Dene went on: "Well, I have bullied you, after all, haven't I?
And, upon my soul, I didn't mean to; for I knew it would be only waste of breath.

Nothing can really touch you; and you'll forget every nasty thing I've said as soon as you've got rid of me safely.

No; what I came to say was this: I'm not going to show you up.